


Sociopath, Interrupted.

by cryingoverspilledvodka



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, First Person Narrative, Heroin Use, Implied use of cocaine, M/M, Mild Character Study, Sexual Content, Smoking, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryingoverspilledvodka/pseuds/cryingoverspilledvodka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your previous question brims drunkenly over my mind; Do what?</p><p>'Me,' I breathe against your mouth in repetition and your eyes flutter shut beneath me, eyelashes brushing my skin in a sinfully intimate way as I answer that long-abandoned question of yours. 'Do me. Take me. Have me.'</p><p>Let me be your reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sociopath, Interrupted.

**Author's Note:**

> Narrative inspired by the fact that Sherlock always seems to be speaking to John, even when he's not there.

The smoke is delicious and I have decided that this wallpaper is boring. We'll need a new one.

 

I have also decided that you are my penance, John. The price I'm paying for the luxury of having you in the first place.

 

It tires me. Watching you. Being with you. Stupid and mild-mannered. Softly worded like petals with coarse hands for stems, worn with the handles of guns and the rough of bandage. You are fascinating on occasion, but mostly dull. Draining and leaving me feeling so spent. You're overwhelming- simple, sweet mouthed you. Sometimes the things you say are so stunningly _John._ I could marry my mouth to words like that. 

 

Sew them together with a needle and thread. Tie the edges together in knots. Frayed and stringy.

 

Sentiment is a fickle thing.

 

Dangerous and wasteful. Such a waste. Energy, time and such precious brain-space given away like gold in a gamblers hands. Spent frivolously for something too luxurious for my taste. Expense is not something I appreciate. And sentiment is quite costly. I fell into it foolishly and unawares and now I'm constantly charged. You are the price. You are my sacrament. My creed. I've been had. Tricked into something so seemingly innocent at the time. You are anything but. I now find myself in your religion. Praying. Needing. 

 

(No. Not needing.)

 

This sentiment, (if you could call it that), is extravagant and destructive. But I can't bear to give it up now. It's consuming. Obsessive, possessive. I close my eyes and hear bombs ticking. How do I know this will last? This lull. No. It's too late to cast you out now. You're stuck. My own personal cancer. An attractive tumour, if anything.

 

Cocaine helps.

 

There is no affection in powder or twenty units of glass. But there is something there that I can never refuse in it. It pulls you out of me. Like it pulled everything else before. The noise. The people. The sheer stupidity and slow of the world. Cleanses me. Poisons me with something new, neutralising the sting you and the rest of this banal existence have left. I need it, John. I need to feel the rush. The silence of everything by the _Work._ The absolute vigour of my brain working, thinking. Oh, thinking. In my worst moments, you come before even that. 

 

How selfish of you. My Work is everything, John. Everything.

 

(But you're more somtimes. In that pathetic way of yours.) 

 

The needle helps. It changes the shape of the world. Numbs it and I feel nothing but the blood in my veins and the thoughts in my head. See nothing but the great scheme of my own brilliance. It changes the shape of you. That presence of you. Stained into my very skin. I can trace every place you've ever touched me with such burning clarity. It's terrifying in the most exhilarating of ways. Cocaine is safer than you. You're unstable. Shifting. No logical way to gauge the kind of reaction I would have if I took you for a high. 

 

Cocaine asks for nothing but you ask for everything, John. I share my Work with you, John. My Work is everything, John. I've given you _everything_.

 

I wonder what you look for from me. I only look for _you_. In your entirety- I want you here, I want you now, I want you not to leave. I want you angry, hurt, scared, bored. Most certainly not shared. There are moments when we're running, (you love the running), and I see it in your eyes. You're happy. Deranged and gloriously so. It's disgusting the way it makes me feel. That cancer sharp in me again. But the minute you catch me watching there's the _longing_. I see it in you every time. What is it you could possibly want from me, John? There's nothing left to give.

 

(Well, there's one thing. But you know you can't have that, John. I can't even promise myself that. Stop asking.)

 

Erratic, wasteful, boring, stupid thing.

 

You volatile creature. There should be a repulsion in that itself. You evaporate, transcend the barriers of us. I need those barriers, John. The restraint. You are the shackles. Don't break now. There'll be nothing to hold me back with then. I cannot have you, John. You know that. We both do. I have all I can possibly take without damage. That will have to do. I do not need you. (But, oh, I want you). 

 

You forget that sometimes. (Obtuse, gormless man). Don't forget. I get lost when you forget. Don't forget. I have promised you many things, but this I have sworn against your skin, in the dark of danger and warmth of pressure;

 

I will leave you, John. 

 

I may even want to when the time comes. (Your sentiment would be greatly offended by that, surely). And I can't promise you anything. I won't. I will leave one day and you will remain here. You will not follow. You don't know it, but I've been preparing you for this for a long time, John. You see, you see- but you don't observe. Blessedly, you don't observe. Because you'll be angry, John. Oh, you'll be angry. (Stubborn, wonderful man). 

 

I don't want you to hurt. Whether you believe me or not. But it's necessary. You'd only come after me if you thought for even the slightest moment I was reachable. That cannot be permitted. You will stay here when the time comes and learn to miss me. I can't give you anything else. 

 

Stop asking for me to promise I'll stay. 

 

(You don't).

 

And now here I am. Remembering.

 

We fell out of the world last night. Blindly, madly and so incredibly sweetly. 

 

It had been close. Far too close for you and never close enough for me. I didn't dare tell you how much I revelled in it. The sheer inches between myself and that bullet. That bullet would have made everything silent. (Helped by that nasty C-4). Cancelled all the noise. You're quite the noisy illness, you know. But if I'm dead, I can't Work. And I can't bear that thought for long, so the exhilaration soon passed. (Nothing matters but the Work). But I had betrayed you in that brief moment. So I kept my mouth wisely shut.

 

You and your sodding sentiment, John. 

 

You had gotten scared. Scared of losing me and I know how important I am to you. You need me in a different way to how I need you. Want you. (I do not need you). You love me. Irrevocably and stupidly, but you do. I don't know how you love me- (I can never tell the difference between _romantic_ and _platonic._ Surely it's all just semantics?)- but I am possessive of it, though I intend to do nothing with it but keep it close and hidden and _so very there_. It's mine after all, I can keep it as long as I want. 

 

But you forgot us last night, John, and took me down with you. Tumbling and tangled in the mess of _emotions_. 

 

I had let you hold my hand- you held it strangely, the same way I imagine you'd held your Browning to your own forehead. (Oh, yes. I know all about that). I often spend hours thinking about how you hold me. Like I'm some terrible persuasion, protecting and threatening you simultaneously. Does it count as a threat if you hold the gun to yourself? You checked my pulse, fingers heavier than usual. You wanted to be _sure._ Because the obvious _obviously_ wasn't enough.

 

You were looking for something. So, I assumed.

 

I offered you a kiss. It was nothing but the smallest of inclinations. You had me sitting in on the coffee-table, suit torn and dusty, checking me over delicately and purposefully for injury. Your hands firm and intimate. I turned up and caught your eyes and I know you knew what I was offering. For someone who could be so unobservant sometimes, you caught this immediately. I could give you anything else but a promise, John. I could've given it to you then, I could give to you now. Skin is just skin, John. Transport. You can have all of it if you ask.

 

(But you won't).

 

You said nothing to me, but I saw the way your eyes darkened. Pupils black. The blue dried and hardened like ink on parchment. You looked furious for one moment and I felt the unfamiliar sensation of apprehension pool in my stomach like oil on water. (I still don't know what I did wrong). Your grip on the back of my head tightened horribly and I wanted to pull away, but something in your eyes held me. I hate that I still can't name what kept me. 

 

Suddenly, you leant forward and kissed the top of my head, dusting your lips with rubble and sweat. And then you were gone. Out the door, up the stairs, (skipping the eleventh because it has a chip you always trip on), and into your own room. 

 

That moment was the closest we had ever come before. We had fallen out of the skins of ourselves and into something more urgent and far, far more dangerous. Cocking the rifle, taking aim. It was so incredibly foolish of me. You are part of my core, my essence. Carved like a name into the bark of a tree. I wanted that kiss and I only realised it after it had been denied. 

 

I still maintain that I was not disappointed though. Merely curious. 

 

And now that's what keeps me here, perched, thinking and trying so desperately not to think of you. The living-room window is thrown open the whole way, locked in place above me. I'm curled into the square of the open space, one leg hanging out of the window in the freezing night air. (I really should've kept my socks on). I open my mouth and the smoke tumbles out of my mouth in sheets. Cigarettes. 

 

(You took my damn cocaine and flushed it down the toliet, you frustrating sod). 

 

I'm curious and I can't stop thinking about what stopped you last night. If you want it so bloody much, John, then just take it for God's sake. This is maddening and so very, very vexing. I know I can't give you what you seem to need so passionately. Commitment- some strange promise of staying. (I will leave, John. You must know that. The Work calls for me to do so, Moriarty whispers for me in the dark of the night). 

 

It's what you look for in your women, too. And don't you dare throw me in with _them_.

 

You seem scared by the possibility of me giving you what you so obviously crave. But that's only a brief deduction. I have no evidence of it, it's just what I think is the answer. But I have been known to make accurate assumptions based on my own understanding. Evidence is just circumstantial really. This whole desperation for a commitment from me is emotional, (irrelevant, harmful and unattainable), but what you _want_ is physical. I can give you physical, John. You need only ask. 

 

This problem is stumping me. My usual punishment. Presented to me in the form of you, as it always is. I should've been more careful all that time ago. Shouldn't have let myself be impressed with you.

 

This is all your fault, John Watson.

 

'Oh, Sherlock, do close that window you're letting an awful draft in. Especially with all these doors open.' 

 

I turn to look as the tittering voice of Mrs. Hudson fills the flat like water. She's after letting herself in, ( _again),_ and heads straight to the kitchen. Probably to borrow sugar. You won't be pleased, John. I already used up most of it for a glucose experiment. She retrieves the sugar as expected and re-enters the living-room, slippers soft on the floor and dressing-gown pulled tight, a little high on her left side. Her hip is bothering her again then. And a sore head. Lavender oil is clumped in the strays hairs over her forehead.

 

She looks up at me and her warm disposition quickly descends into one of exasperation. Oh, she doesn't like when I do this. Again, sentiment. So frightfully interfering. I lift the cigarette to my mouth and turn away from her, savouring the burn. It bites at my throat like an old lover and warms my tongue the way you didn't. Sentimental idiot. Mrs. Hudson is speaking again. I wish she wouldn't do that. I'm trying to think.

 

'I thought you were on those patches again,' Mrs. Hudson implores miserably and I can't help but roll my eyes. Childish, but effective. I feel better. Cigarette perched on my lips, I roll up the sleeves of my shirt and show her my arms, stickered with three shining patches each. I register the line of concern in her forehead, (her deepest wrinkle, chronic-worrier). I present her my arms like some strange, silent explanation. 

 

'John doesn't like when you do this, Sherlock. He's wanted you to quit for ages now.'

 

I let out a smoky laugh.

  
Ha, you want a lot of things, don't you, John? But you seem intent on starving yourself of things that are clearly a desire for yourself. I try not feel too smug as I take my cigarette into my fingers once more. I've got your sex, and my cigarettes. Despite everything you are, and everything you mean, it's still me in control. Still me with full possession over the things that drive you, worry you. Tempt you. I lean back against the window-frame and blow out. One clear, steady breath of tobacco. Mrs. Hudson makes a disapproving noise and I can't help but smile, closing my eyes as the wonderful pleasure of the smoke envelopes me.

 

'John is not my nanny and I shall smoke whenever I please,' I drawl, tasting the words. So gloriously bitter. And I will, John. I'll smoke all night if I like. Where are you anyway? Ah yes _\- walking._ Clearing that ridiculously empty head of yours. Surely you can't risk losing any thoughts. You have so few.

 

Oh. That was mean. I bite my tongue and feel ash.

 

I'd bite my tongue a hundred times for you, John. 

 

'Don't you think it'd be better not to wind him up, dear?' Mrs Hudson is imploring again. Dear me, this affection nonsense was exhausting. How did people stand it? I sigh heavily and roll my head to look at her properly. I can't even bear listening to this. Mrs. Hudson is leaning to the right. The hip's still sore then. I do hate when she looks at me like that. It's that same placating look Mycroft has. This is all your fault, John. 

 

'He's still very shaky after your little tumble last night.'

 

I laugh at that. Was that how you described it to her, then? You silly, baffling, little man _._ It's actually quite endearing. Casually left out the gun chase and the C-4. Clever boy? Hardly. Oh. I'm being quite mean now. Maybe it's the nicotine. I look back out onto the street, taking another deep inhalation from my cigarette. Maybe you'd be a lot happier if you smoked, John. Maybe you wouldn't lust so much and feel a little less miserable. 

 

But I quickly find that I don't like that thought at all. I am your high, John. I know what gets you going. Makes your heart pump. No pieces of addictive paper could possibly replace me. Jealously, hot and liquid pools in me as I regard my own cigarette. I do not share, John. The heavy stain you leave on me everywhere you go is beginning to burn like a fresh tattoo. The usual obsession you've burned into me. Singed soul, curled in on the edges. You've gone and infected me, John. How typically, well, _John_ of you.

 

Well, well. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. 

 

Here you are now, my personal demon. Storming across the silent road. Your eyes seek mine out from below, shining and sinister as the light from my window spills onto the night-stained street. I have to say, I rather like looking at you from above. Makes you seem smaller. Makes that hole you tore in me a little less big. I drain the last of my cigarette. It scorches the back of my throat, tenderly warm between my fingers. I close my eyes briefly, because I know just what that does to you. When I look again- Oh, there it is. 

 

You're angry now. Good. 

 

I relax back as you stare up at me from the street. A stand-off, I suppose. I blow out and spill smoke across the night-sky. Tormenting you, my ailment, from above. Pulling the fight out of you because I'm bored, John. I'm bored of this nonsense and I need a fight. And that's what people with cancer do, don't they? Fight it. Something nudges me, whispering in a voice sickeningly like yours, _bit not good, Sherlock._ I run my tongue along the back of my teeth. I make my decision and flick my cigarette down onto the street. It misses you by inches. 

 

Come and get me, John. This is all your fault anyway.

 

I turn to Mrs. Hudson as you burst through the door below. I hear you stumble with the lock at first. Two- no, three pints. Dear me, I have upset you, haven't I? Your sentiment is quite the burden, John. Mrs. Hudson glances behind her as the doors clatter below. I smile and I know she's upset with me when she looks at me again. I try not to savour the words too much. But they taste so sweet with the smoke. 

 

'Better run along, Mrs. Hudson. I fear myself and John are in the midst of a _domestic,_ as you so quaintly put it,' I say calmly and I know she's angry, too. You do really know how to get people on your side, John. Speaking of which, here you are now.

 

I must admit, I'm a little breathless with you. You're standing in the door, shoulders squared and quivering. You look like some strange shadow caught in the cross of a soldier and something a little more baleful. Your eyes are so incredibly dark. Pupils dilated. Highly emotional. Legs are firm- no limp tonight. Guess I wasn't as upsetting as I thought. Hand steady. You have your left-shoulder tilted back. Away from the fight. 

 

Nervous are we, John? 

 

'Would you excuse us for a moment, Mrs. Hudson?' you ask in a tight voice and I watch your tongue work around those funny little words furiously. I smile further and I watch the way your lips twitch. Teeth bared. I'm riling you up. The ache you leave in me is threatening to overwhelm me. I need this fight, John. I need to be rid of you. Need to cast you out. 

 

That or sleep with you. But the latter seems unlikely. 

 

Because you won't unless I give you that silly promise. That _I'll never leave you, John_. I would leave you a thousand times over whether you beg me to stay or not. 

 

But here's one of our truths, John-

 

You cannot leave me. Not like this. Not now.

 

You're mine. My doctrine. My sickness. My poison. And I do not like to share. Not my afflictions. Not my vices. Not anything. But you seem intent on finding something other than the thrill to keep you here. Some promise I am incapable of making. And who knows what it will be to tempt you away. (Some pathetic woman perhaps. Predictable. Dull). I could tie you physically, because you are so spectacularly loyal you'd never stray then. 

 

Sex is fine. The emotion people bring with it is tiresome though.

 

The idea blooms in me like blood fresh from a wound.

 

Or...

 

Or I can try and rid myself of this disgusting, hideous presence you've left within me right now. I cannot identify it as anything but you, John. You are part of my very being. Tore me apart and sewed yourself in so I can't tell where my dependency begins and my wants end. It's unpleasant and consuming. Like drowning in some glorious drug. Dying and ecstatic at the same time. I can try to stop it.

 

Cut the chains. Free myself of my subscription to this intense and frightening _affection_ towards you. 

 

If I can pull us apart, make us separate again, (Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock), then I will regress. Then I would lose nothing of myself, I'd be cured. And when the time comes for us to part for the final time, it will feel nothing short of losing a particularly favourable piece of clothing. Yes, it was a favourite. But there are others to find in the world. Maybe even better made ones.

 

(But there's no one better than you, is there?)

 

'So, bored, are we?' you say bitingly. I feel out of a step at first. This is a new tact for you. You're usually loud, emotional. This is cold and extremely bitter. Interesting. We're alone now, door closed and the swell between us is stifling. How do you stand this, John?

 

This _emotions_ thing.

 

'Habitual of being clever,' I reply airily, unwilling to play into your hands. I am not your pawn, John. I will not be moved about the board like some pathetic puzzle piece. That was for normal people. Boring people. People like you. 

 

'Well, can't have someone as clever and _brilliant_ as you bored, can we?' you spit sharply and I am perplexed. You're being mean. Not your usual attack-plan. You move across the flat, (I see you're not too drunk), and the light looks heavy on the shoulders of your usual black jacket. You shot a man for me in that coat, John. Do you remember? You turn and look at me and that nameless emotion holds me again, faithfully your partner in crime. Damn whatever it was. Your eyes narrow as you talk;

 

'It's a good thing I don't worry about bullets and buildings collapsing on you. Otherwise people would think I was wasting my time trying to keep you healthy.'

 

Oh, John. You're falling into old patterns again. Trying to provoke guilt. Usual mistake. I find my footing. 

 

'I should hope so. You are a doctor after all. Surely even the most incompetent of your profession at least _try_ to keep people healthy,' I sneer, demoralising you. The ache is back and twists like an angry beast in my chest. It's protesting. _Guilt,_ mymind tells me. Ugh. Disgusting. (This is all your fault, John). Something flashes across your face and for one, wild moment of insanity, I worry if I've hurt you. 

 

'Yeah, but you're not even human, never mind a _person_ , Sherlock. So I think I can get away with not trying this time around.' You're seething now and I feel the strangest sting at the comment.

 

I am a person. Resentfully so, but one none the less. 

 

The word _Freak_ comes to mind. I frown mentally at it. You turn and face me with a thunderous look in those blue eyes of yours, hands curled into fists at the end like fraying paper bends in on itself. 

 

I intake sharply through my nose And then all Hell breaks loose.

 

We shout for what feels like hours. You throw you arms in the air with a fury and I know you're so close to hitting me. The harsh words are falling from my mouth like suicide notes. They pile up and I watch you buckle under the weight of them. You don't see. (Of course you don't). I'm trying to hurt you. It's for your own good. You stupid, daft, insane man. Moriarty is moving. I need to _move._ And if I don't do this, your silly affection will follow me. Blundering in and spoiling all my plans. Oh, don't look at me like that. Like it's all my fault. You were the one who went and found me. You were the one who drew _me_ in, enveloping me, catching me. Now I'm stuck in this disgusting fondness for you. This requirement for you. 

 

(Not need). 

 

I'm just going to break your silly, normal heart. So kindly take it and _go._ Or at least accept there's nothing for you in me and continue as we are. Because this interlude is overwhelming.

 

Our voices are raising. The neighbours will call the police. (Again). _Domestic disturbance?_ I'm just glad your Browning is upstairs tucked safely in the bedside table. This is turning into a highly charged upset. I'd probably have shot me by now. I've never gone this far before. I'm saying all the right words to really tear at you. Parents, Harry, the war, the boy you let die because you were shot... Failure as a brother, failure as a doctor. I can already see the tears forming. 

 

You won't cry though. You never do.

 

I'm not sorry, John. We _need_ this. Otherwise we'd just destroy each-other. 

 

' _Fucking addict..._ don't know why I even bother.'

 

'Then don't.' 

 

'For God's sake, Sherlock!' Your voice clatters about like clumsy church-bells, ringing off the walls of our bitter flat. I toss my head up and it bangs off the wood of the window-frame, my anchor. You turn in the spot before pointing an accusing finger at me. 'Why can't you just _stop this_? Why does everything need to be so bloody hard with you? Can't you just admit that you need me around-!'

 

'Need you?' I roar, interrupting you, something new and hot and _vicious_ erupting into life within me and I rise from my perch. The word has distracted me- _need?_ I stalk up to you and look down at you. The inches are bare, but so present in moments like these. I want you to remember your position. 

 

You are _mine_ , John. My assistant. My partner. My other half of the rent. My thing to throw away if I so choose. Do not forget your place. 

 

'I don't need you, John. Do not mistake tolerance for affection. Or engagement as commitment. Desperation is _not_ attractive. I have lived without you before and I could easily do so again. You are nothing but a suitable convenience. And a replaceable one, at that.'

 

Bang. Final shot. Let's see who's left standing. The hurt on your face almost breaks me. Almost.

 

Then a lot of things happen at once.

 

Your fists are knotted and tied up in my shirt. Red fingers, (tinted from the cold outside), bury themselves into the snow of my white shirt and pull me across the room. The kettle whistles below us. (Mrs. Hudson always makes tea when nervous). My back slams into the door, hardly and coldly. My head narrowly misses the coat hook. I'm winded from the force. I'm much thinner than I should be. There'll probably be a bruise. The door shakes from the impact. Some frustrated neighbour pounds the opposite wall. You're holding me up a little and your fists are pinching my chest through the fabric. I hiss in pain. 

 

'You seem to be confused, Sherlock,' you snarl. Oh, I've really done it this time. You're gone. Fell over the edge of yourself. Who knows where you'll land now. The hole you made within me stretches as though trying to accommodate for you. I try despairingly to ignore it, but you haven't been this close in so long. I yearn for you. And it terrifies me. 'You think you're the one in control here?'

 

(I'm supposed to be getting rid of you).

 

'Tell me right now what's going on in that fucking head of yours _now,_ or I will leave. Right now, I swear to God and anyone else. Bag's been packed since last night. So talk.'

 

Bag?

 

I can't breathe. It's too soon. I haven't detached myself yet. It's all wrong. I leave _you._ It will hurt if you leave, John. Don't leave. Not now.

 

'No.' The word falls past my lips before I can catch it with my teeth. Washed in tobacco and something so desperate, it falls onto your face and the shadow in your eye shifts. The tumour you've created for yourself is bursting and the poison of you is leaking, spilling all over us in the darkened flat heavy with cigarette smoke. 

 

(That window really has done nothing but blow it back in).

 

'You wouldn't...' I plead stupidly. Emotions. Pathetic and so dangerous. This is all your fault, John. This is all your fault. 'You wouldn't leave me.'

 

'And why the bloody-Hell shouldn't I?' you bite back, your face so close to mine I can smell the beer on your breath. No, stout. Not beer. You're distracting me. My mind is fogging. My logic getting lost in the fuzz and torment of that strange emotion I can never name. You continue with that same tone that makes me feel physically ill; 'You've already made it quite clear how you feel. After all, you just said yourself, _“I don't need you”._ Why don't I just save myself the trouble and let you off to find a new pet? _'_

 

The voice is a twisted mock of my own and sends a shiver down my spine. I don't like that word. Moriarty's word. At my tremble, you seem to slack slightly. You think you're scaring me. (You're right). 

 

'Please.'

 

Everything stops. A look of genuine surprise graces your creased and crumpled features. The deep blue of them is hot and churning like boiling paint. I watch it shift in your eyes oh, so heavy. The word has left a stain on my lips. I'll never be able to take it back now. It's tattooed itself to me. Written along the line where you sewed us together so entirely. I know now. Now that you threaten to leave me. That you practically promise to. It snaps inside me like a catalyst.

 

I can not give you up, John. 

 

I don't want you to go, John.

 

Please stay, John. 

 

I love you, John.

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

I name it at last. But this? This cannot be the kind of love people seem to romanticise about. The kind of love _you_ would look for. This is not pleasurable. This hurts unbelievably and aches with an unforgiven throb. The longing is present and sickening. It pulls and scratches from the inside out, leaving me raw and bitten inside. This is all-consuming and destructive. It burns everything it touches and I'm left spluttering and raking in the smoke and dark. This love for you is more than obsession, more than possession. It is oblique and transcending, develops into something so much darker. 

 

And I know you love me, too. But in that hideously sentimental way of yours.

 

It is no longer a question of needs and wants. You are fundamental, John. You are necessary to live, to breathe, to think, to be, to drug, to solve, to run, to _love_. The word is so new and fits in so well with all the previous problems I had been presented with. It must be love- yes? It fits your requirements; I like you, I want you around, I don't want you to have someone else. That's love, isn't it? You are required, an essential part. Need is pale in comparison of what you are now. What you've been for so long. 

 

This is not good, John. Not good at all. 

 

I breathe in the smell of you. Rain, wood and alcohol. And also lusciously of cigarettes. I'm drunk on you now. Not enough. I crave more like some strange beast- growling, impatient. I am trapped in this bizarre want, John. This damning affliction. I want to escape it. Cut you out with a blade. Euthanise you. But it's too late for that, isn't it, John? We've tripped up now, tumbling down the rabbit hole. 

 

I was right before. Cocaine was safer. 

 

There is no escaping now, John. You're in too deep, buried into me, past my skin, past my flesh, bones, _soul._ Deeper, so much deeper. I am your addict. Your nihilist. You're everything- if you let me. 

 

(But you shouldn't, John. You really shouldn't. Because it's too late now and if you eradicate that final block, take away our last restraint, there is nothing stopping me. I will consume you. And that's not good, John. Because you'll want something I can't give you. You always will). 

 

This _love_ changes nothing, John. I will still leave you. I'm falling into the fissure of what you need and what I want. You need to be reminded of this truth. I will leave you behind. Not now, not tomorrow. Maybe not even for years. But I will. Moriaty has sealed that promise. You need to be told that. I need to save you from the hurt of it, the surprise. It's all I can do for you now. 

 

Consider it an act of love.

 

Your hands are still tangled up in me and I'm not sure how you'd react if I try to move, or move my arms from my sides. You'd probably see it as some struggle, some fight and pin me down again. (And I've already got one bruise from you, cheers). So I leave my arms limp and remain tied up in you. 

 

(This is getting rather hampering though, John. There's a curl after falling down onto my face and it's tickling me, so do hurry up and make a move). 

 

Because I can't stay here. Plastered against this door with your heat and your flush against me, so gloriously _angry_ and _interesting_. I want to be here and that's very bad. Because I'm enjoying this too much. Testing you, taking you in. Injecting you into the great chasm of want you've created. You can't leave, John. Not ever.

 

'You just can't,' I finish aloud and your eyes soften, though your jaw remains tight. Still angry then. 

 

'Fine, I won't,' you concede and I'm rather surprised, (and disappointed), with this sudden defeat. But you're not done. 'If you promise. _No._ If you _swear_ , you will never do that to me again.'

 

That demand. In that voice. It hits the pit of my stomach like a stone in water. I move slightly into your touch, disgustingly tempting more from you. I'm getting lost in it now. Need to regain control.

 

'Which “that”?' I ask deeply, lowering my gaze and leaning more into the door, sliding down slightly to be level with you. Give you some illusion of control. You seem to enjoy having power over me.

 

The question probes. Pushing you, prying from you. I try to splinter you, John. I doubt you mean the smoking, so I wonder which part of the last evening your privy to protest against now. The provoking of a trigger-happy gunman? The rather stimulating juggle of C-4 bricks? The recklessness of everything in general?

 

'Don't run off on your own,' you state like it's the most obvious thing in the word. I narrow my eyes to show you my frustration with you. You set your mouth thinly. A distraction. What are you trying to hide from me, John? 'Don't leave me behind. Promise me.'

 

Ah. There's the rub. 

 

Well, here we are again.

 

But it's different this time, John. You can't ask me in this state. I'd promise anything just to have you now. I would lie and tease, manipulate you and swallow you whole without thought. I'd tell you anything you'd like if I could take what I want (need) from you now. 

 

And that's a _bit not good._

 

But then again, it would be so much fun to have you the way I crave...

 

'Well, Sherlock?'

 

Suddenly, you release me and your hands have moved. Your right strays up like a nervous dancer across my skin, skimming and graceful. You cup my face like I'm something delicate, something to treasure. This perplexes me. (Though you do thankfully push that curl out of my way). Your left moves with more purpose. It grips my wrist like a cuff and holds me firmly. It almost hurts. You're reminding me that right now, you are still in control. 

 

(Or, that you think you are).

 

I don't like this. Not one bit. My crippling addiction is beckoning and I just can't indulge. It would be wrong of me. Wrong for you. Stop this, John. 

 

It would be wrong, wouldn't it?

 

'Give me something, Sherlock, anything. Give me a reason to stay.'

 

(Now you're the one testing me. I don't like tests. I always give the wrong information). 

 

What you need, or what I want? 

 

We can't have both, John. And I can no longer decide safely for us. I'm infected. Biased. I will lie if I have to, just to keep you. I'd lie with everything I have left to use. I would only decide for myself. You're my drug, John. You will be ignored or used and you will not be given a say in either. (The thought sends a small thrill of excitement through me).

 

I don't know if I can do that to you, John. 

 

'Do what?'

 

Oh, bugger. Spoke instead of thought. Your deep blue eyes flash.

 

I open and close my mouth silently like a fool. I have no idea what to say. You are watching me with an intense look of concentration. You are completely focused on me and while I normally revel and express in attention from you, this is completely unwanted. I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to get me to admit something, trying to take it from my face the way I take everything from you with just a glance. You're forcing me to decide and you don't even know it. 

 

I consider my ache. The tumour of you, tangled and tied within me. Throbbing and sore and _begging_. I'm still desperate for you. Consumed with this terrible lust and love, so volatile and loose it's hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. This will be the end of us, John. The end of you as you knew yourself. Because I will leave nothing left of you. I will devour you, ravage anything and everything I can from you. I want your scar, your bullet, your skin, your taste, your presence, your grief. I want everything and here you are, practically asking me to take it. 

 

Bugger it. I'll swallow our bitter pill. Here's hoping I don't choke. 

 

It only takes one quick movement for the release. Oh, God, John. The _release_. This is new. A first. So _dazzlingly_ new. 

 

Eyes shut and dark, I duck forwards and our lips meet in a hard crash of skin. You're hot, burning against me. The sickness in me eases a little before intensifying terribly. It's still not enough. You've jumped beneath me and in your surprise, your hands slacken. I take my chance and pull. My hands grasps the base of your neck and drag you, piercing me with the needle that is _you._ My sweet narcotic. How did I ever survive without this? Without you.

 

(This is so wrong, John. I recognise this, I do. But I'm finding it so hard to stop now).

 

I'm finally filling this hole. This wound you gouged out of me. You did this, John. You were the temptation to a long-suffering addict. (And I was doing so well, too). 

 

You taste bitter like stout and sweet like yourself. Your lips are still tense and shut, but that simply won't do. I run my tongue along the fray of your mouth, treating you like a particularly expensive cigarette. Oh, but this is better. You gasp at the contact and I drown myself in you. Tongue and teeth and so deliciously wet. I don't have much experience, but I let my instincts lead us. In my blindness I feel everything. Body temperature is rising, muscles relaxing. You're giving in. Letting me have you, like you let me have everything else.

 

If I do this, I'll be tying you to me forever, (loyal, faithful John), and the thought excites me beyond anything. You would never leave me if this is how we are. Physical, emotional- _essential._ You're a faithful partner, (friend, colleague, partner, lover, boyfriend, whatever you want), and I know that this is probably some betrayal of trust you have in me, but I can't bring myself to care. Even now, I find it hard to remember how I will eventually abandon you.

 

Then it's over. 

 

You suddenly crash back into yourself. John Hamish Watson, straight, angry and most certainly _not_ about to be swayed by what I had hoped to be a habit-driving snog. Your hands are strong and firm against my chest and you push me back into the door. My hands fall away and hold me steady. Ow. Definitely bruised then. I open my eyes and look at you. Your hands are splayed across me like shields and I am stuck between our door and you. I can only think of one place I'd rather be right now, but I doubt you'd appreciate that particular suggestion.

 

I'm already falling into withdrawal symptoms. 

 

'S-Sherlock,' you stutter, face flushed and eyes still simmering with upset. Pupils black. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Do try and not to be so tragically boring, John. You're spoiling what started as a promising high. 'What was that? What are you-?'

 

'Me,' I answer the long-forgotten question and register the husk of my voice. The effect you had has been far more pronounced that first anticipated. You crease like an envelope, sealing a confusion. I was correct then. You forgot your own question. 

 

I take my chance and seize the needle. Plunge you, my beautiful soporific into my skin once more.

 

This kiss is so much better than the first. My tongue is quick and determined, sliding between the folds of your mouth and delighting in you. You taste better than any cigarette I've ever had. Your hands are still on my chest, but limp now. Merely a touch, not a protest. I dare not move my hands back to your body, terrified of scaring you. You can be so skittish sometimes, John. And the last thing I want you to do now is leave. Oh. There it is again- that _sting_.

  
Don't leave me, John.

 

Your previous question brims drunkenly over my mind; _Do what?_

 

'Me,' I breathe against your mouth in repetition and your eyes flutter shut beneath me, eyelashes brushing my skin in a sinfully intimate way as I answer that long-abandoned question of yours. 'Do me. Take me. _Have me_.' Let me be your reason.

 

I'm begging now. Not that you know that or anything. I'd never beg. (Aloud).

 

You seem to tremble into some strange weakness. You are unsure, nervous and thinking. Don't think, John. You're not nearly practised enough at it. And a good drug does not think, it does not judge and it does not _wait_. I seize you again, casting aside my deposition and my hands are back on your neck, pulling, scratching. Desperate for my dose. My next hit.

 

God, I could just drown in you, John.

 

It does not take long for you to start kissing me back. And when you do, gratifying shivers flood through me, filling the hole of you, killing the craving in the most pleasurable way. It kicks me in the abdomen and we're falling with startling speed into something we won't be able to take back now. You are firm and passionate, emotion once so repellent now something I hunger for from you. Because I want _everything,_ John. Give me everything, and you can have me. At least for now.

 

(Now that, I can promise).

 

Your tongue moves across my bottom lip and I open for you. You take my lips into yours, nipping and soothing with teeth and tongue and I try to hold back the moan that creeps up my throat. You're much better at this than I am and you quickly subdue me. I record every movement you make, repeating the same twists and licks as you. You groan in appreciation and the noise excites me greatly. I overcome you, using my tongue to guide your bottom lip between mine and I suck lightly. The whimper that escapes you is beautiful. 

 

Hands suddenly strong, you push me back against the door and my bruise hums in an almost pleasing way. I enjoy the force. The fight. Lips are still biting, running. Your hands don't stay long and they fly to my hips and grip too tight. I'm definitely too thin. There'll be bruises there, too. Gorgeous fingerprints. I find I don't mind one bit. Your tongue is alive and vivid against mine and surprisingly, it quickly pushes me into submission once more. 

 

Then your body is against me- flush, tight. The door is so solid behind me. I moan into you, hollowing your cheeks and staining your teeth with tobacco and want. I wrap my arms around your neck, hands hanging like gallows and your shoulders my perch. I bend my knees a little to let you overcome me more. Your hands pull my hips against you and the pressure is _fantastic._

 

You are amazing, John. So much better than anything I could possibly imagine. You block out everything. You suffocate me. There is no thinking, no interference. Only you- just you, John. I can feel your heart pounding against my chest. I thirst for this, John. (How will I ever be able to give this up?) I can never achieve this level of intoxication with anything else. Nothing will kill the noise like you do. Nothing will ignite me like this. 

 

You cannot leave me, John.

 

'I won't,' you say, biting the flesh where my jaw meets my neck. Bollocks. Again with the talking out loud. That's definitely you're fault, John. I tilt my head up for you. I can feel your teeth and it is electric. Your arms snake around my waist suddenly and the friction between us is the most illustrious sense of passing I've ever had. No high will ever do again. Everything would be so dull without you, John. 

 

And then you bite again and I groan, whimper, _pine_. It's not enough, John. And you know it.

 

Things are escalating at an alarming rate. You were my catalyst and now I'm stumbling through this strange and galvanic product. This product of us. Your hands are making quick work of my shirt, like opening little doors. You only pull the first three buttons away but it's enough to make me succumb once more to the burning sensation of pure and utter _want_. I've long cast your coat to the floor where it now lies like a body. My right-hand is buried in the white-gold of your hair, high-lighted from the light above us. My grip is tight. 

 

You moan when I tug a bit harder and I feel something spark inside me. _It's still not enough_. My left-hand moves to your chest, slipping fingers under the hem of your cardigan as much as I can from our position of being slammed against each other like books on a shelf. I fumble briefly with the buttons of your shirt, but give up quickly. (Confounding inventions, utterly useless). You move and are on my mouth again, filling me, drowning me and I swallow the poison of you whole. 

 

It's just oh, so good, John. I moan deeply and feel my chest vibrate from it. My whole body is reacting so atrociously it would probably be embarrassing if I wasn't so gone. You nip a bit harder on my bottom lip and press your whole form back into me. I lean into you, arching my back and our hips meet in a satisfying grind. I can feel how I've excited you, pressed hard against my inner thigh, and when I move to roll, you feel what you've done to me.

 

We both groan into swollen lips. 

 

I'm learning, cataloguing. I want to know what touches elicit those noises from you. I want more of them. I don't want you to say anything ever again. Only moan and sigh like this, pushing me, urging me on further and further into this lucid fantasy. It's the only use for oxygen I ever want you to have again.

 

You grind forwards when my tongue presses into yours heavily. I tilt back like glass, spilling myself all over you. I arch into the addictive pleasure as you move once more against me. You make a sound deep in your throat and it's the most glorious thing I've ever heard, John. It shoots through me, straight to my abdomen, (and considerably lower), where it flips and twitches pleasurably. My hips arch forwards. You make that gorgeous noise again. You seem to like that, John. When I respond. You seem to enjoy taking these reactions from me like I take everything else from you.

 

I'm happy to oblige, my dear doctor. 

 

You pull back for the smallest moment and I pathetically whimper from the loss of you. Then you give me another breath-taking, John-tasting kiss and I melt into it, so unbelievably starving for more of you. More of us. The heat is building up again and I feel like everything inside me is going to burst. Finally, _finally_ , this terrible space you made in me is being filled. I slide my left-hand lower between us, past your stomach and to the buckle of your belt-

 

Suddenly, you're gone. It feels like falling into cold water. 

 

I open my eyes and watch you lean forward, wrinkles burrowed and eyes closed. You rest your head against mine, breathing deeply through your mouth. What's wrong, John? I didn't particularly feel like stopping. There's the most peculiar look of pain and disbelief on your face. Mingled in there with what must've been the delirious kind of happy that comes with these things. Well, surely that's good. Yes, John?

 

'I'm drunk.'

 

Right. Well. That certainly was _not_ the reaction I was hoping for. 

 

You let out an exhausted sigh and with one fluid push, you're away from me. You turn a slow circle, running your hands over your face, before letting out a frustrated groan. I feel the ache for you kick me hard at the noise. Denying yourself is no fun, John. Trust me. Being clean is all well and good, but the _high,_ John. It's worth it. I press my hands against the wall and push myself up, intending to move over to you, but you spot the movement and turn to face me, a hand out-stretched, _pleading_. 

 

'No, Sherlock. I'm drunk, and you-' That breathy little laugh of yours. Bitter. '- you are obviously high as fuck right now,' you say a little harshly and despite myself I feel stung. I haven't taken anything. Nicotine most certainly does not count and I don't think you'll find _John H. Watson_ in a pamphlet at the local clinic. You seem to be avoiding my gaze determinedly and it frustrates me highly. 

 

For God's sake, John. Stop acting like a child and _look at me_. 

 

I open my mouth, intending to correct you and tell you that I'm perfectly (relatively) clean right now, thank you very much, but you start that annoying habit of talking again. I close my mouth and stand a little straighter. It's too soon to tell yet, but I can see your leg stiffening and you're tilting away to the left. Obviously you're preparing for some conflict. And I certainly don't plan on just lying down and taking whatever you want to throw at me. I made my decision. I was _perfectly_ (relatively) clear with you. As clear as I'd ever need to be. You're the one being dreadfully dull and misleading. If anything, I should be getting ready to yell at you. 

 

(My manipulation doesn't really count as a lie, right? Not if you enjoy it. Not if we want it.)

 

'Look, Sherlock, I'm-' you pause, biting your lip and shutting your eyes as though the light is hurting you. I don't like that look. Much prefer you happy, or sleepy. You're quite amicable sleepy. Another rush of air as you sigh. You rest your hands on your hips and finally, finally look at me. Your eyes are dark, (Good or bad? I can't tell), and I'm not entirely sure I understand what you're trying to show me. 'I shouldn't have let you do that. It was wrong.'

 

'Felt perfectly fine to me,' I snap back a little irritably. You give me a breath of a laugh in that tone you use when you think I'm being childish. This only serves to annoy me more. I glance at the tightness of your jeans. 'And it's quite clear you were enjoying yourself, if the state of your cock is anything to go by.'

 

You give me a look as though I had insulted you. When you speak again, the words have a slight tremor; 'W-we shouldn't have done this.'

 

I hate that you think that. Even though you're absolutely right.

 

This shouldn't have happened. You and me, _us-_ too dangerous, too unstable. Everything could be ruined now and the high I had for you mere moments ago is drastically falling into a terrifying hurt. Hurt from your rejection, hurt from this bloody _yearning_ I'm still seem stuck with it. You could leave now. _(Don't leave)._ But I chanced it. I showed you what I wanted, what I was willing to give you to make you stay.

 

That wasn't exactly a manipulation, surely?

 

So really, even though I shouldn't have put you in this position, at least I was honest (sort of) about it. You're the one being boring. (Typical).

 

You give me another breath, low and heavy before giving a very faint smile, your eyes suddenly pulled down with disappointment. I feel my eyes narrow. I'm not entirely sure how to react to that one, John. Never have been. You bend down and retrieve your coat from the floor, hands steady and pale in the buzzing light, and then you're walking slowly out of the living-room, hand tight on the door-handle to the hall. 

 

'I'm going to bed. Try not to overdose while I'm sleeping, yeah?'

 

I almost bark something sharp at you, but you've already gone and I'm left here, stunned. The door shuts behind you with a snap.

 

The flat has fallen silent except for the rumblings of London, crawling in through the open window.

 

My mind is racing. Running, rasping. Everything is too much. You wanted something to stay for and I gave you the one thing I wanted to give, the one thing I thought you might've craved more than a commitment. And you responded, positively. What now? You didn't seem that drunk. Three pints of stout, not that bad from past experiences. Maybe I missed something. (Though that seems unlikely). What changed? I push away that feeling of rejection. I don't like it. Something is wrong. I want you. I certainly _felt_ it was rather obvious you want me, too. So what happened?

 

Ugh. This is some form of _sentiment_ again, isn't it? 

 

I let out a loud groan of frustration and I sincerely hope you hear it up there. You bastard. How could you allow me to do that? Risk everything like that? Like a- like a _normal person?!_ I may not forgive you for this, John. I turn around and give the door a good kick, just for good measure. This is unfair. On everyone. I've taken complete advantage of you and you've deceived me much better than I thought you ever could. The only thing that could possibly cancel both you've denied me. And yet, that sodding tumour of love for you pounds inside me like a second heart.

 

This is too much, John. I can't take this.

 

I storm over the window and slam it shut as loudly as I possibly can. The glass shakes in the antique frame and I close the curtains with an unnecessary flourish. Stupid, banal and so disgustingly normal- but I must admit, the temper does make me feel a bit better. I turn and head straight to my bedroom. You were electric, John. Inspiring, adrenaline pumping. Like cocaine, but so much better and far more dangerous. I want to feel it again. The high of you. I want to taste your tongue and feel the blistering heat of your skin. I miss it. I miss you and it is infuriating.

 

My first proper kiss, and you had to go and spoil the rush by being so despairingly ordinary. 

 

And to make matters worse, you've actually gone and made me feel a little insulted. 

 

I slam my door and the bang is excruciatingly loud- even for my own fury. My coat swings like a pendulum on the back from the force. It takes me a few moments to realise that I'm gasping. You and your ruddy side-effects. I stand in the silence of my room, my heart pounding in my ears, breathing filling the room like water and the poison of you heavy in my chest. Love is a chemical defect. It needs to be neutralised. Immediately.

 

I can hear you move above me. The muffle of footsteps and the squeak of your bed. Shoes being kicked off. Loud, angry thumps. Good. I want you to be mad. I want you to be furious. Because I am so unbelievably mad at you for doing this, John. And I just can't stand this. This rush coursing through me without anything to satisfy it. The craving is unbearable. I give the place a quick glance. Well, if you're not a viable substitute...

 

Walking over to my shelves, I slide the cased-insects aside, the frame making a strange whisper on the wood. One clear line of dust. The room is tinted with the strange blue of the window, street-light quivering as though in anticipation for what's coming. I have to say, I'm a little excited myself. It's been so long. And I want it so badly. I reach for the small crack in the back of the shelf-wall, press and push. The panel clicks open, door-swinging like an old friends wave. The blue light skims over the small, leather box with nervous fingers.

 

I smile.

 

Hello, darling. I'm home.

 

I take out the box and move across the room, sliding into the chair by the wardrobe. The leather is so tantalisingly rough beneath my fingertips. I'm actually getting a bit excited now. In a matter of a few minutes, I'll be rid of you, John. Maybe not the way I wanted to be rid of you, and certainly not permanently. But I will be for now. I'll kill the sting of you, bury the memory of you. And numb that bloody ache. 

 

You may have taken my cocaine, like the good little doctor you are. But I don't want a stimulant tonight. I don't want the speed. Or the heightening. Right now, all I want to do is relax and drown out the noise. The box opens with a beautiful snap, pouncing open. Clean as a cat's mouth. The light of the room winks across the glass. I feel myself smiling again. 

 

People do underestimate the sheer brilliance of heroin. 

 

I undo the cuff of my shirt, push the fabric up and secure the tourniquet. It hurts a little. It's been a while. A few moments of precise measures, mixing, a lighter, some alcohol and cotton-wool later, I tap the side of the sterilised point. It glimmers and smiles at me with silver teeth. Not long now. I glance at the ceiling above me. No snoring, or squeaking springs. Still not asleep then. Might I suggest you stay in your room anyway? Wouldn't want to make you _mad_ , now would we, John?

 

Three taps of the vein and then the glorious sting. It pinches at first- almost unbearably tight. It's been far too long. I plunge in, as far as I remember is safe and _push._

 

When it's over, it only takes me a few moments to clear away my apparatus and then I move to the bed, splaying across it on my back and watching the space above me where I know your bed is. To think, if you hadn't been so you, I'd probably be up there with you losing the virginity my brother seems so obsessed with. (I doubt fellatio counts as true loss. But you never know what those idiots outside consider _purity._ Victor had always been so careful with me, while dealers had tended to be a little less kind). Not to worry though, brother-dearest can rest easy. I'm alone tonight. 

 

Well.

 

The dose begins to take action and I feel something more acute than sleep tug at the edges of me. I sigh loudly, happily. (I'm fully aware I'm being too loud). 

 

Alone with an old friend. 


End file.
